Sunrise
by laulupidu
Summary: Sometimes the sunlight comes back. Updates when I have time, which means slowly. Sorry! - Irene/Teresa
1. Prologue

_It was sudden._

_One quick flick of a blade and Teresa's golden hair fanned around her face, faint smile replaced by an expression of incredible surprise._

_Then Priscilla moved, faster than anything she'd ever seen, and Irene's heart leapt into her throat and hung there. She fell to her knees, eyes wide, limbs frozen. The world slowed, and Teresa's head spun obscenely through the air. Irene could make no noise, could only kneel there dumbly, ragged breaths sounding in her ears. Hers. Sophia's. Noel's. They knew there was nothing they could do now but die._

_Teresa's head landed with a sickening thud. The world sped up again. Irene's heart fell into her chest and roared back to life like fire, blood beating the rhythm of Teresa's name. She had never known such agony. Her vision went white-hot, and then dark with rage._

_She charged._

- - -

Irene bolted upright, gasping, lone arm wrapped tight around her chest. That dream again, almost three weeks now and every night's the same, forcing her to watch Teresa's death in excruciating detail as she slept. The realism of it was agonizing, the fear and pain of it all twisted, a heavy knot in her gut. And the guilt. The guilt was something like a wild thing, gnashing its teeth with every move she made, following her like some sinister shadow. There was no escaping it.

Irene had been complicit in the murder of the most beautiful creature she'd ever known. She'd taken that knowledge, taken it and held it close, clutching at it as if it would save her from drowning in sorrow even as it burned her. She must never forget, never forgive. She carried the memory of Teresa, and accepted that duty with the solemn dignity of the silent clergymen tasked with preserving what remained of their fallen idols. The burden was hers alone.

Some days were harder than others and nights like these were worse, when the memories overtook her and she lay for hours suffocating under the weight of her own grief. The dreams shook her, brought back the flood of emotion she had worked so hard to keep tightly bound. She clamped down on her unease, forcing it back into the depths it had risen from. The Organization would not find her here, would not find the cabin she and Teresa had used for their secret meetings. She had made sure of that.

Irene threw her legs over the edge of the bed, feet on the cool floor helping to ground her. It was only a nightmare. Teresa would be pleased that she had allowed herself to succumb to something so human. Irene allowed herself a tiny smile at that, but it was gone as quickly as it had come, lips pressed back into a thin line.

There would be no smiles anymore. She had made sure of that, too. The air felt heavy all around her, too thick to breathe. Too thick to think.

Perhaps some tea was in order. She didn't need much in the way of sustenance, but she'd learned in her time that the act of making tea was soothing. Boil the water, add the leaves. Steep. Breathe in deeply and inhale the steam. It made life easier to bear, such a simple thing. She put a pot of water over the coals left from an earlier fire, leaned against the wall, and closed her eyes.

- - -

_Irene opened her eyes and blinked against the harsh daylight. So she had survived after all, her duty done. But what terrible work it had been, to destroy the sun. _

_Irene was no stranger to the dark, no stranger to pain. She'd been baptized in suffering, they all had, each and every one of them. Their very existence was testament to strength of will, to how much a mind could be twisted before it snapped. These were hard lives they led, and lonely ones. And hers would have been just as desolate, had it not been for Teresa._

_It was with a great deal of effort that she pushed herself to her feet, slowly, careful not to tear the healing wound across her chest. _

_The scene was oddly peaceful. There was Noel, and next to her, Sophia. They could have been sleeping, but for the blood. And there was so much blood. They were gone. Their silly squabbles over rank meant nothing now. The world would go on as if they had never been in it. The Organization would see them replaced just as quickly as Priscilla's claws had torn through them._

_Next to them, Irene knelt, and with her one hand, began to dig._

- - -

The sound of water hissing on the coals as it boiled over brought her back to the present, and Irene reached out to drag the pot from the fire. Her motions were awkward and mechanical, containing nothing of her usually fluid grace. Her stoicism warred with the ache in her heart as she added the tea leaves and waited for the water to color, waited for the steam to take on that familiar flowery scent. The one blend of leaves and blossoms that Irene loved best of all was also the one that hurt the most. It was a test, every morning when she awoke. Was she strong enough to face this daily, tangible reminder of the time they had shared?

Today Irene's self-control won out, and she deemed herself worthy of bearing the memories she kept.

Teresa had made tea here. It was the first morning they had spent alone together, having found the remote cabin on an Awakened Being hunt some months before. Teresa had commented that it looked like a lover's retreat, and those words had held such sensual promise that Irene could only stare as the other woman lifted an eyebrow in silent question. "Yes," Irene had said. Teresa had only smiled that infuriating smile, the one that said she knew what Irene would say before she'd even thought it. Irene loved that smile.

Teresa had made tea that morning, and every morning after, experimenting with the plants and berries she added until it was perfect. She did not care that she didn't need it, she'd said. She simply liked the smell, the taste, the act of making it. And then she'd smiled that smile again and Irene had forgotten all about tea, about anything other than Teresa and her powerfully soft body, limbs long and loose like something beautiful and feral.

For such a force of nature, Teresa had an oddly domestic side, Irene had found. She'd used whatever money she got from the Organization to buy dishes enough for the two of them, odd bits of furniture here and there. Irene had found it amusingly endearing, and she'd had to admit that, in spite of her disdain for human comforts, she quite enjoyed spending time with Teresa in bed. The other woman had known it, as she had known everything, and used it to her advantage as often as possible. It was not something Irene had particularly minded.

It had ended when Teresa asked her to stay. "Live with me here," she had said, and Irene's body had gone stiff, spine ramrod straight and shoulders rigid. _I cannot, _her body had said, and it had been more than enough answer for Teresa. Her eyes had shone sadly then, though her mouth still smiled, and Irene had wanted nothing more than to say yes. Yes to everything, yes to this cabin, yes to days spent making the bed, making tea, making love. Yes to Teresa. But she couldn't. She had her duty, her obligation. It was not for them to wish for such things, was not for them to go against their fate.

Teresa had laid a kiss, the gentlest kiss Irene had ever known, upon her brow. "Goodbye," she had said, and gone.

Irene gripped the handle of her cup tightly, and looked out the window. The sun was rising.

- - -

_It took her hours._

_It was routine, standard procedure for death of a teammate. Dig the grave. Bury the body. Mark the place with their sword. Custom. She buried Noel and Sophia first, taking great pains not to look in Teresa's direction. If she didn't look, it couldn't be real. Any moment now the Number One-ranked warrior would come up behind her, push her hair to the side, and kiss her neck. "Leave with me," she would say. "You're no Rabona priest. Funerals aren't for you." Teresa would switch to the other side then, trailing little bites up the long column of exposed skin there. "Leave with me," she'd say again, running a hand across Irene's stomach. Not begging, no. Teresa never begged. She commanded, and either you obeyed or you lost her. Irene had lost her. But this time she'd say yes. This time she would leave._

_The fantasy held firm until Irene placed Sophia's sword in the dirt above her grave. It began to crack as she walked toward Teresa's body. When she touched the fabric covering the woman's arm, it shattered. Teresa had found a light in the darkness of their lives, had found something more than duty and killing to live for. And she had died for it._

_Irene had come thinking to die by Teresa's hand, but it was Teresa who had fallen. All of them had fallen, but Irene alone had survived._

_She wished she hadn't._

- - -

Irene stepped outside to greet the dawn, cup of tea cooling in her hand. She had passed the test she imposed upon herself each day, the ritual that determined the worth of her very existence. She would enjoy her drink and savor the sunrise, would watch the brilliant yellow glow set the sky ablaze. This was the nearest to prayer Irene had ever gotten, this time spent in worship of the sun. It was the loneliest time of day, but it was also the time she felt closest to the woman she had known. They had often stood like this, just outside the door, leaning against each other and taking in the view. Irene had loved the way Teresa's hair shone, white-gold and gleaming in the early morning light, loved the way those silver eyes grew dark with want, enough heat to catch her heart on fire. She had rarely seen the sunrise, had been too busy watching the beams of sunlight play across Teresa's face, casting her delicate features in high relief. It had been all Irene had ever wanted. But she had said no, and doomed them both.

They were each terribly different when they met again. She had grown sharper, more distant in the years away from Teresa's light, and Teresa had found someone else to share that light with. Irene had burned with jealousy, at first tiny tendrils of flame licking up her spine, and then an inferno, blistering in her chest like a funeral pyre. But she had cultivated cold in those years, thick walls of ice along her most tender places. Teresa would not get through.

But gotten through she had. With her blade, with her eyes, with her dangerous grace, she had cut through all of Irene's defenses. _Do not take from me what light I've found. _A warning. Irene could read it in the absence of her smile. It was a warning she did not heed, not until it was much too late.

There were few things she regretted as much. _Nothing _she regretted as much, as she stood outside their empty home and drank tea made by the wrong hand. Teresa's hand had always been all elegant lines and refined strength, like the rest of her. It wasn't just the hands Irene missed.

It wasn't until Irene was sure that impossibly lovely face would never turn her way again, that deep and lustful voice would never speak her name, that she allowed herself to fall fully into her despair. She had been on the edge, for long moments, of throwing herself beside Teresa's body in that grave she'd dug, the pain so overwhelming that she could not imagine how it was her heart kept beating. Teresa had died, and she had watched, had let it happen and done nothing, done worse than nothing. For the first time since she had received her sword, Irene had wept.

The tears had not lasted long. The apathy she had ingrained in herself had asserted its presence, her survival instinct coming back to life in the night. She had suppressed her yoki then, while trying to gain control of her tears, two different struggles with self-preservation all that held her together as she lingered by Teresa's grave and tried to will herself to leave. At long last, she had kissed the blade that served as headstone, her lips leaving a faint mark there, a lover's epitaph. And then she had gone.

Irene turned her face up, toward the first rays of the sun, just peeking over the hills, finding simple pleasure in the warm wind that caressed her face, the heated glow that kissed her lips. "Hello, Teresa," she said.

- - -

In the last of three shallow graves high up on a mountain top, Teresa of the Faint Smile opened her eyes.


	2. Grave Dawn

It was still dark out when Irene rose, not even the faintest blush of light beginning to appear on the horizon. That was good. She had time.

She woke early every morning, but on this day each year, Irene was up even before the first fingers of the dawn had begun to reach across the sky. She did not take the time to prepare her usual tea on these days, instead dressing as quickly as her single arm would allow, taking great care to make sure everything was properly fitted. She had purposefully purchased the most difficult outfit she could find, a garment composed almost entirely of straps and small buckles. She did them all up each day, timing herself as she did. She would not allow herself to grow weak simply because she lacked a limb.

Buckles and straps done, she sat on her bed to pull her boots on, a tedious task, but another that she demanded of herself daily. Irene had never been one to take the easy way out of anything. She slid her boots on carefully and stood, walking slowly to the plain wooden box at the foot of her bed. She knelt in front of it, head bowed, and drew the key from a pouch at her belt. It was several moments before she could will her hand to stop shaking enough to unlock it.

Though she had washed and cleaned her old warrior's uniform as best she could, Irene had not worn it since the day Teresa had died. She kept it in the box, unable to bear the sight of it for long. On this morning each year, she removed it, ran her fingers along the length of it, held it to her chest. She closed her eyes and breathed deep. The memories came flooding back.

- - -

_The clashing of their swords rang in Irene's ears as they sparred on the training grounds, their movements fluid and natural as if they had been doing this for years, as if they were dancers._

_Irene furrowed her brow and pressed forward. They were not dancers, they were warriors. There was no place in their world for such romantic simile. They were monsters made to fight other monsters, there was no romance in that. Only blood and death and pain. _

_She released the yoki in her arm, preparing to use the technique that had started some of the other trainees calling her "Flash Sword" Irene. If she admitted it to herself, she felt a sense of pride in her achievement. She'd heard the whispers when she walked by, the talk of how all her extra work, her long nights spent training while the others slept, had paid off. A single digit for sure, they said to each other. Maybe even Number One._

_The yoki surged in her arm, and Irene kept a tight reign on her self-control as she advanced, blade blurry with her monstrous speed. The other girl let her come, looking on with a smile just shy of outright mockery. Irene's sword flashed down, quickly, a hundred cuts in the space of a second. _

_The match was over._

_Irene found herself flat on her back, the other girl's sword at her throat. She blinked slowly, stupidly, and wondered how she had gotten there. How had this girl, who had been training for less than a year, defeated her? How was it that she knew precisely when to move, when to strike, when to block - so effortlessly? And how did she do it without releasing any of her energy? __Irene had not seen anything like it in her life._

_The girl stood and stuck her sword in the ground. Irene looked up at her, eyes narrowed. The girl's smile was still firmly in place, as if she taunted the world. It was almost infuriating._

"_Don't look so angry," she said, leaning down to offer a hand. "I'm Teresa. I beat everyone."_

_Against all her better judgment, in spite of all her warrior's pride, Irene reached up and took Teresa's hand._

_Teresa's smile widened. "I think we're going to make lovely friends."_

- - -

After several long minutes, Irene folded the cloth, almost reverently, and put it back. She rose and headed toward the door, picking up her sword and slinging it across her back, and pulled her cloak down from a peg by the door, the dark cloth rough against her skin. Irene had no need for luxury. Indeed, she lived with as little as she could, intentionally denying herself any comfort. Her one pleasure was the tea, and on this day she denied herself that as well. She deserved nothing good to subdue the ache that came with the breaking dawn of Teresa's death each year. Nothing rich and earthy to breathe in, nothing sweet to hold on her tongue. Denial was her atonement, inaction had been her sin. The remnants of it clung to her like smoke, impossible to wash away.

She threw the cloak around her shoulders, pulling the hood low around her face. She was reasonably certain that none of the warriors from her generation were left, but her silver eyes would be hard to miss, even to one who'd never heard of "Flash Sword" Irene, and she wished to take no chances. Her destination was too important for any interruptions along the way, her need to travel unnoticed was paramount. She would stick to the back roads, traveling through forests and avoiding towns. No one could see her, and she must make every effort to make this so. All her days were spent alone, but this day was spent more than alone, and less. The staccato stabs of her heartbeat on these morbid anniversaries left her near defenseless. But they brought her closer to Teresa as well, calming only when she knelt, gently, on her knees by Teresa's sword, kissing the blade and pressing her hand into the dirt as if she could force her love through the earth to make Teresa rise again.

It didn't work, of course, but she always tried.

Stepping through the door into the dark, Irene made her way to the garden. It was mostly a vegetable garden, with a few patches of flowers here and there. Teresa had started it, hoping to use the plants she grew in her new life with Irene, away from the warriors and the yoma and the Organization. It had been dead when Irene had finally returned to this place, after Teresa was gone, and she had spent many months bringing it back to life, the restoration of Teresa's tea flowers helping to dull the sharpest edges of her grief. It was these flowers she went to, picking the biggest and boldest, strong hand arranging them into a modest bouquet, bunching them together, tying them with woven blades of grass. It was delicate work, and Irene's fingers trembled as she tied. She was not an emotional woman, had never been, but had been even less so in the time since Priscilla had awakened. She'd had to close off the very deepest parts of herself, for fear that the sorrow there would one day overwhelm her. She shut her eyes tight, and clenched her hand into a fist, breathing deeply. She could do this without falling to pieces, as she did each year. But each year it was a near thing.

- - -

_"Irene," Teresa called from the garden, a note of pleasure in her warm, low voice. "Our flowers are blooming."_

_Irene went to her, stood beside the other woman, whose face glowed with pleasure. Irene basked in it, the radiance that Teresa exuded, as if she were a flower herself and Teresa her sun. "They're beautiful."_

_Teresa turned to her and smiled, mischievous gleam in her silver eyes. "You aren't looking at them," she said._

_And she wasn't. Irene nodded, but did not look away from Teresa's face. "I suppose I find you more so." It was a quiet admission, Irene had always been reluctant to voice her feelings, but somehow this woman always managed to draw them from her anyway._

"_Charmer," Teresa said, raising a hand to brush against Irene's face, and Irene tilted her head as that delicate hand moved to grasp the nape of her neck and pull her close, pull her in._

_Irene went willingly. She always did._

- - -

The memory had come upon her unbidden, but it served to calm her somewhat, and she was able to finish twining the tea flowers together, without her hand shaking so badly that she dropped them all and had to start again. That kind of time wasting would not do. Not today.

When she was through, Irene took a moment to look at it, pale blossoms gathered together and held in place with a band of deep green. It was not the most beautiful bouquet in the world, surely, but Teresa would have appreciated the simplicity, she knew. For all her haughty beauty and arrogance, Teresa had always found the most pleasure in the unadorned, ordinary things. Perhaps, Irene thought, that was what Teresa had found so appealing about her.

With a deep breath, Irene got to her feet. She looked to the sky, the stars beginning to fade in anticipation of the rising sun, and hung the flowers from her belt, careful to make sure the fragile petals would not be crushed during her journey. Satisfied that the bouquet would remain sufficiently protected as she traveled, Irene walked to the base of the mountain that separated her valley from the rest of the world. With the moon as her guiding light, she began to climb.

- - -

_Teresa appeared suddenly in the doorway, wicked grin firmly in place. "Irene," she said. "Come with me."_

_Irene allowed herself to be led out and into the dark._

_They walked together through the forest, neither saying much, content in the peaceful silence between them, though it had been months since their last meeting at the cabin. Irene had not taken the time to explore the valley as Teresa had, did not have the desire to know their surroundings beyond what she must know in order to properly defend herself. But Teresa liked to roam._

_It was after an hour spent walking along a path through the woods at the floor of the valley that Teresa stopped. "Close your eyes," she said, and Irene did so, slight frown creasing between her eyebrows. The frown deepened as Teresa's footsteps got farther and farther away, until Irene could no longer hear them._

_Irene was beginning to wonder whether or not to go after her when she felt the other woman's yoki flare, pulsing slowly, beckoning. Irene followed._

_And then Teresa was before her, armor piled around her feet, moonlight refracting off the surface of the lake behind her, casting her dips and curves into pools of shadow, the edges of her glowing softly silver. Irene's breath caught in her throat. Teresa stepped forward, slid her hands up Irene's chest, fingers working quickly over the buckles that held her armor in place. Irene stood quietly and let herself be undressed, watched the graceful movements of Teresa's shoulders, her arms, her hands, as she removed the uniform Irene wore. Teresa was, she thought, truly the most perfect being the universe had ever thought to create._

"_I know," Teresa said, reading the thoughts written across Irene's face. "Now come with me." She took Irene's hand again, led her into the water, pulled her in until the water reached their breasts. And then she leaned forward, and bent her head down, and Irene could think no more._

- - -

Memories of her time with Teresa came quickly, a new one beginning as the last one ended, a rush of images and feelings close to bursting forth from behind the dam she had built within herself. She welcomed the distraction they provided from the shame that rose in her throat like fire, that tasted like ashes on her tongue. Where the guilt threatened to overwhelm her until she collapsed, the memories served to keep her feet pounding toward her destination.

She moved quickly through the woods, over hills and through valleys, careful to avoid any signs of civilization. Her speed and stamina had not suffered at all in her years of self-imposed isolation, and energy suppression made her nearly impossible to detect. If there were any warriors in the area, they would likely not feel her at all. Irene pulled her hood lower over her face, hiding her silver eyes in shadow, and continued to run along the mountain path. She made it to the top as the sun rose.

Irene pulled the flowers from her belt as she reached the summit. Her pace slowed, feet suddenly heavy and tired, the dull ache that was constant in her chest sprouting a sharp edge as she walked. She curled her fist around the stems she held, trying to keep her hand from shaking.

Every year, this was the hardest thing she'd ever done.

She stopped at Noel and Sophia's graves first, paying her respects to her fallen comrades. It gave her time to compose herself, to stand there next to their swords, still deep in the earth. She hadn't felt any attachment to them beyond that she felt for every warrior of the Organization, but they had been there when Teresa died, had tried to defeat the monster that Priscilla had become. She owed them her gratitude at least.

Irene inclined her head to their swords, and then she turned, taking measured, nearly reluctant steps toward the heap of earth that marked the place she'd buried her happiness. The heap of earth, and no sword. Irene stopped. Her eyes widened. She had buried Teresa, had smoothed the soil above her body like she had smoothed the sheets of their bed. She had placed the sword as a marker, had left a kiss upon the blade as an epitaph – _Here lies my love, _it had said. _Here lies my heart. _And now the sword was gone, the earth disturbed.

In the red light of dawn, Irene dropped the flowers and fell to her knees beside Teresa's empty grave.


End file.
